


Song of a Lifetime

by elven_prophecy, thebeastinsideusall



Series: Fahliil-Sunvaar-Wahlaan [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anxiety, Attraction, Blood and Injury, Death, Escape, F/M, Fear, Fighting, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Night Terrors, Nudity, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Resurrection, Swearing, Transformation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2019-10-18 01:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17571473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elven_prophecy/pseuds/elven_prophecy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeastinsideusall/pseuds/thebeastinsideusall
Summary: A destiny born into.A song to be written.A crown upon an unwilling brow.A shout for freedom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dragonspeech bolded as usual. Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

###  1

      Pain was the first thing he felt, searing, molten agony. That he felt anything meant that he was no longer a corporeal being, watching the world change (at the speed of a snail) and hearing grass grow (which can be fascinating when nothing else is happening).     
  
   He felt every vibration, every nuance, as his bones came together with cracks like stone against stone.  His muscles and sinew regrew like rapid vines over ever vertebrae and joint. He'd felt worse agony before, much worse, but he was hard pressed to remember when. He almost fell to the ground he was coming out of when his massive heart beat its first in thousands of years (Oh Akatosh he would never get use to this). It wrenched in his chest, and once that first beat came, it thundered to life, pumping thick blood through his being.    
  
   His jaws opened and he roared to the skies as scales emerged and reformed, flushing and settling on his hide.  Then he got his eyes and was able to see without the haze (hard to explain) blinking them open and the first thing he saw?  Alduin. Now  _ there _ was a sight for sore eyes.   
  
   He roared again as more torment exploded from all over.  He was able to keep his feet and his ice blue eyes rounded on the World Eater that hovered above him.  His wings spread to steady his massive weight that he hadn’t felt in so many ages. The World Eater’s form a black monstrous shadow triple his own size.    
  
   “ **Alduin** !” his first word in millennia came out as a roar of near glee to be alive once more.    
  
   “ **Odahvhiing** .”    
  
   He couldn't help himself as he raised himself on his back legs and Shouted Frost Breath directly into the sky.  That he felt the wind, the cold scraping against his teeth made him want to cackle in jubilation. The flakes of ice and snow that glittered down melted on his hide and he relished the feeling against his scales.    
  
   “ **There is work to be done** ,” Alduin continued passively.  His crimson eyes narrowed briefly.   
  
    “ **You would not revive me if there were not** ,” Oda returned as he straightened, and stretched his wings.  Proud to be revived by Alduin himself (again).    
  
    “ **Skyrim is mine** ,” Alduin rumbled, “ **Remind the Nords of this** .”   
  
    “ **Yes, my Lord** ,” Oda bowed his great horned head. If dragons could smirk, his would be deep and grim.   
  
    Red, glowing eyes narrowed as they peered down at the red drake that was significantly smaller in size. “ **Good** .”   
  
    It didn't surprise Oda when Alduin flapped his great wings once  _ hard _ to gain altitude (The debris was blinding), and vanished from sight.  Oda watched him disappear and roared again, being as loud as he possibly could be.  Flocks of hawks scattered from trees and every deer in hearing vicinity ran in fear at the echo. There was no stopping him as he did it again and again, until his throat was raw.   
  
  He stretched his massive wings again and was about to take to the skies when a couple of two-legged, sword-wielding morsels seem to appear out of nowhere.  They reeked of wine and fish water. He felt his mouth water as one of them unsheathed their sword. He hadn’t fed in so long....  _ Oh yes _ …   
  
   He didn't even give the guard a chance to swing that big sword before his jaws snapped on him.  Blood coated his tongue and he groaned in ecstasy over the taste.  _ Yes, yes, yes _ !  He didn't fling the human as would be the norm, but swallowed them whole (he barely chewed).  His tongue came out as he turned towards the second human. He was starving.   
  
   The man screamed and turned to run, but Oda was already on him, his teeth practically cutting him in half.  More blood, more growling. Oh but he'd forgotten how delicious Nords were. It was a shame there was only two…   
  
   He straightened and raised his head to breathe in the air around him.  Only two  _ for now _ .  He could smell the foulness that was Riften.  Time hadn't changed it much in the years, it had always been a hovel of corruptness.  Things rarely changed in Skyrim…   
  
   He opened his wings and took to the skies.     
  
   His heart beat excitedly as he felt the wind on his face.  The fresh air lifted him up as though he weighed nothing and he roared again.  He flapped his immense wings and gained altitude quickly, reaching heights higher than that of the Throat of the World.     
  
   He glided as high as he could and closed his eyes.  There he hovered for a long moment before he brought his wings close to his body and let himself fall out of the sky.  The wind rushed through his ears and he roared as the ground hastened towards him at an insane pace.   
  
   His adrenaline pumped through his body as he gained speed not normally achieved by big drakes.  He opened his wings and dived back up into the sky, his roar echoing as he Shouted more Frost Breath.  Akatosh be praised. To be alive…   
  
   His arms hurt from the force but he didn't stop, not until he’d had his full of the air.  He rolled in the sky over and over again, bringing himself closer to the ground each time, but he didn't care.  He knew he wouldn't crash, he  _ needed _ this rush.     
  
   Flight was love.   
  
   Flight was life.   
  
   He spent hours rolling, spinning and gliding in the sky before he finally put a stop to it and landed close to a Word Wall. There was no other drake about and so Oda transformed himself into an Atmoran. A burst of red black smoke encased his scaled body and then quickly was sucked into itself, revealing his humanoid shape.    
  
   As a dragon he was proud of his looks, he was a gorgeous deep red, borderline ruby red, with black lines going across his scales.  Before the mass extinction of the females (that still hurt to think about) he’d never lacked for female companionship. He was a snow dragon, the last of the red ones (like snow elves, his kind had been hunted to near extinction eons ago).  His burgundy scales reflected the sun in the same way a ruby would.   
  
   As an Atmoran, his appearance wasn't much different.  He had flame red hair with black streaks going through it, his beard (it was red and black as well) was braided in two with knots.  He was seven feet of solid muscle, with just the right amount of body hair that made him into a cuddly, red and white bear. There wasn't an inch of fat anywhere on his body, and his bone structure left him with looks that appealed to the human/mer females (he’d never lacked for female companionship as an Atmoran either).     
  
   Unlike most dragons, Oda didn't mind being in his Atmoran form (he loved it honestly).  Alduin wasn't one to fraternize with the enemy (The World Eater also considered any form but dragon below him) nor was he one to do any type if reconnaissance (not that Alduin needed too honestly).     
  
   Oda, on the other hand, had tasted defeat (he doubted Alduin had even felt his time in the rift) and he'd been killed before (at least twice).  He didn't want another axe to disembowel him or take a sword to the eye (an iron long sword at that, that cursed Ancient Nord had gotten a lucky hit there).  He was going to do his research before he attacked any Hold. He would bring men to their knees, but he wasn't going to be going in blind.   
  
    He opened the massive chest near the wall and pulled out a bunch of ancient leather and fur armor.  He grimaced as the chest piece fell apart in his hands. Apparently his stash of weapons and armour hadn’t aged very well.  He cursed under his breath and returned to his dragon form.   
  
   It was a good thing that half the population in Skyrim was bandits.  They didn't exactly report dragon sightings to jarls. He found a nice pile of bandits in Halted Stream Camp, all dressed in the furs and leathers he preferred.  Oooo and one had a two handed battleaxe!   
  
   He landed in their midst and unleashed thousands of years of boredom on their fleshy hides.  The excitement and thrill of defeating tiny humans filled him with unnatural glee. He crushed two with his bulk (including axe guy) and the rest he ate/froze/burnt.  They did absolutely no damage to him and when he was done, he gingerly picked up the two corpses with his teeth and went back to his word wall.   
  
   The corpses dropped to the ground unceremoniously and he was already back in his Atmoran form.  He grimaced again as he got a good whiff of body odour off the corpses as he stripped them. Akatosh… do Nords not clean themselves these days?  Alduin's ass, he’d eaten maybe five of them already… was he going to suffer indigestion on his first day alive?   
  
   He cursed again as he held up the fur leather.  He shook his head and gave it a good shake. He was sure he saw fleas and lice flying… yep… he flicked an ice tick off his arm.  He sighed in resignation. Really, no pride.   
  
   “ **When was the last time you bathed** ?” He asked the dead man and then grimaced again when a gust of wind brought more odious odours wafting up to his sensitive nose.  He was going to have to wash this junk before he wore any of it. And so, Oda grabbed all the gear he was going to wear, strapped the big two-handed battleaxe to his back and strolled down the mountain.     
  
   Naked.   
  
   He held his head high, in case he crossed paths with anyone, and determinedly made his way towards a body of water,  _ any _ body of water.  There was no way in all of Nirn that he was going to wear any of this without giving it a thorough scrubbing.  He'd never had ticks or parasites before and he wasn't about to start now.   
  
    He was quick to find a stream that vanished underground close to the base of his mountain and he didn't even hesitate as he threw the armours into the chilled water.  He followed after it, barely feeling the cold water (he was a snow dragon, need he say more) and took great satisfaction on beating the clothes against the rocks. May all the fleas die!   
  
   He worked up an amazing sweat scrubbing the dirt and filth from the leathers and furs that when he was done (the leather/furs had actually changed colour) he howled in excitement.  Oda gathered the soaked gears and without bothering to ring it out started the climb back up the mountain.   
  
   He transformed back into a dragon and used his Fire Breath Shout on a flat rock to heat it up good.  Transformed back to Atmoran and stretched the clothes out on said rock (Yes, he could have Shouted without transforming but he had  _ wanted _ too).  The fact that he could switch back and forth on a whim was something he was enjoying after having been in stasis for so long.  It felt good to be alive.   
  
   He grinned to himself as he heard distinct popping coming from the clothes.   His smile turned dark. The ticks were exploding and that gave him some serious satisfaction.  He opened his mouth and roared in victory, he was the mighty Odahviing, bringing the day of reckoning to the insects of Skyrim.  They would never be the same after he was done here.

   Another pop brought another roar out of Oda. “ **Die** !”   
  
  He was swaying to the pops from the armours (Ooooo that was an insect shriek right there).  Any moment now he was going to turn into a Forsworn, dancing naked around a fire pit (he'd joined the Forsworn once, ages ago, they’d went too far for him though with the worshipping of Hagravens).     
  
  When there was finally silence (that had been way too many bugs honestly) he nudged the corpse. “ **You realize you had a culture living on you, you dirty little man** ?”    
  
   He grabbed the furs and gave them a good shake now that the heat and the water had done their jobs.  What had previously looked like a cave bear pelt was most definitely an ice wolf (That's how dirty it had been…) pelt. “ **Akatosh, I almost ate you** .” He kicked the corpse as he pulled the furs on.  The distinct sound of bones breaking and organs being crushed was not lost on the Atmoran and he rather liked it.   
  
   He grunted as he barely managed to push his bicep through the arm.  Oh no… he groaned as he heard the material rip. Apparently he was going without the chestplate.  Damn these Nords for being so small! It was no surprise really that Alduin ran around naked when he was in his Atmoran form.   
  
   At least the lower half was more loose being belted and all.  The boots he stretched considerably (he’d had to re-leather them).  The gauntlets weren't long enough in the fingers so he cut the fingers off.  Akatosh, the Nords were getting smaller as the ages passed. He cursed under his breath as the pants tightened as he crouched beside the naked stinky human.   
  
   He grabbed a sharp rock from the ground and cut the Nord's arm.  He squeezed the arm to force the blood out. He dipped two fingers in and slashed a red line under his left eye.  Another dip and he did three more lines across his pectoral on the left side. He straightened and then flexed all his muscles.   
  
    He roared again, his throat burning with barely restrained ice.  The sound echoing from his mountain, and not at all human. Signaling his return to any who still might remember the glory of his kind.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragonspeech bolded as usual! Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

###  2

The first time Raz’han had realized that he was different was when he was a child, living in the Hammerfell desert like the Nomads his ancestors had always been.  His mother had told him that he had been born under the star of the Dragon (the stars shone brightest at his birth), and as such she had known, all those years ago that he was Dragonborn.

It was only reinforced in Skyrim when he was captured crossing the border illegally.  He’d come to make the pilgrimage to see the Greybeards. To either confirm that he was Dragonborn or to put to rest his mother’s ambitions (or delusions).  

He’d been thrust in the midst of a civil war torn country, and was going to be considered a casualty of war.  The Empire was going to execute him for no reason other than he’d been captured in the vicinity of Ulfric Stormcloak.  

The fires in his veins had been lit as though touched by oil.  His anger knew no bounds when that Captain had almost dragged him to the bucket.  He’d gone, with his back straight and his pride intact. He’d not begged, merely stared in cold, hard hatred at the Legionnaires that surrounded him.  He’d not opened his mouth once, and had ignored the big Nord trying to get information out of him. 

He would have been but a footnote in the pages of history, a nameless Redguard warrior, killed alongside Ulfric.  Except, that’s not what happened. 

Myth was made flesh at the exact moment the hooded Executioner had raised his massive battle-axe to separate his head from his shoulders.  One moment, he was staring at the disembodied head in the basket and the next, Alduin (he hadn’t known it at the time) had landed and destroyed Helgen.

He’d been freed and had immediately joined the Stormcloaks.  Ralof, the blonde Stormcloak warrior, had joined him and freed him.  Honour demanded that Raz’han remain with the warrior until the debt of life could be repaid.  It was the Redguard way.

Ralof had chuckled but had understood (Nords were not as different from Redguards in that regard).  He’d offered Raz’han a place at his side instead, in the Stormcloak army. There had been no hesitation on his part, they’d clasped forearms and without even meeting Ulfric, he’d thrown his lot in with Ralof’s. 

When the black dragon had left what was left of Helgen behind, Ralof had dragged him to Riverwood to meet his sister.  She’d begged Raz’han to make haste to Whiterun for help, and he’d not delayed. Running in the extreme heat of Hammerfell all his life had made the jaunt to Whiterun as easy as a walk in town.  He’d made it in record time.

It was there, in Whiterun, that Raz’han finally knew for a fact that he was Dragonborn, for another dragon had attacked the western tower while he was there.  It was this dragon, whose soul he’d absorbed, that had turned his life upside down. 

No longer was he a footnote.  

He was the Last Dragonborn.

The black dragon was confirmed to be Alduin, the World Eater made flesh.

His name, now synonymous with dragonslaying, was whispered in awe when he walked into a room.  Both the Legion and the Stormcloaks wanted him (he’d already made his choice), and he was merciless as far as the Legion went.  

He’d joined the Companions almost immediately after he’d returned from the Greybeards.  He’d risen through their ranks like a shooting star, (he’d done the same with the Thieves Guild) his speed and agility beyond compare.  His constant training as a child and youth in the desert proved him infallible. 

As his fame and renown grew, even the jarls faithful to the Empire dropped to their knees in front of him to beg for favours.  Dragons, whom none could kill without his aid, tended to have that effect.

And Raz’han, though faithful to the Stormcloaks, could not deny the people aid.  He took great satisfaction at watching those loyal to the Empire lick his boots but he knew that he would help regardless of their affiliations.

He’d been given great power and as such, it was his duty to ensure that his power was used for the greater good of the people.  And so, when the jarl of Markath sent a courier to Jorrvaskr, Raz’han hadn’t hesitated.

He’d left the Companions (Vilkas was his right hand man and as such was left in charge) without a moment’s notice and had made his way to the Dwemer city (it had taken him a week on foot).  An Ancient dragon had taken residence near the town and was wreaking havoc with the city’s supplies. 

Raz’han saw the creature immediately when he arrived and it noticed him as well.  If its hackles raised, all the better, he wanted the creature nervous and scared. They died quicker that way, for it made mistakes.

As if choreographed, he’d made for the animal’s head.  He dodged the teeth and was a virtual virago with his one handed sword and shield combo.  Through the months since his freedom from the Empire, he’d upgraded his armours and weapons (Glass armour/shield and Ebony sword).  

It took him a couple hours to bring down the beast.  He’d damaged one of its wings and it lost the ability to fly.  It was over the moment the creature was grounded. A flightless dragon was a dead dragon.  He hadn’t realized he was being watched by half the town when he’d mounted its head. 

The monster had screeched as he’d hacked at its face, and then he’d plunged his ebony sword in its thick skull.  He pierced the brain and he shoulder rolled from the animal as it reared back and limply fell forward again. The dust exploding around the great lizard as its head landed beside him, his sword still implanted in it.

And then the creature started dissolving in front of him.  Losing its skin and scales, exposing its skeleton as it went up in flames and dust.  He straightened, put his foot on the skull and ripped his sword from the bone. He raised his sword in the air (the soul was leaving the creature and entering his body) at the same time as a great cry of joy erupted behind him from the walls of Markath, the people had spoken. 

It was time now, for him to gain the bootlicking he rightly deserved and turned to make his way towards the gates.  They opened from the inside and he walked through as though he owned the place. His back was straight and he narrowed his eyes as he stared at the people lined up on both sides of the gates.

He walked deliberately, keeping himself on guard (the Dark Brotherhood had already made a couple attempts on him, he’d deal with them eventually) and his eyes found a pair of septim golden eyes staring at him intently (she was practically undressing him with her eyes and he snorted, not exactly pleased at the idea).

He appraised the small woman quickly and his eyes moved on, but he’d noticed that she had an odd air about her.  She was obviously an Altmer (long ears, golden eyes and golden skin from what he could see) though her height was at odds with her kind (she was extremely short).  She was probably a mixed mer. He grimaced inwardly and passed her by. 

The money he got for slaying the dragon was pitiful (two hundred gold…) and he let the jarl know that next time, it had better be five hundred or he wasn’t coming.  He was bluffing of course (he wouldn’t let the population suffer), but the jarl didn’t know that.

    The hike back to Whiterun was uneventful (it wasn't even worth noting the pair of Sabre cats that attacked him).  There was a couple instances where he’d glanced back over his shoulder and had narrowed his eyes at lone figure way off in the distance.  In a word, he felt  _ followed _ .

   When he’d reached the city walls, he’d made straight for his house.  He ignored Lydia’s prattle (she was in his room again) as he unloaded from his latest escapade.

   “So when are you going to capture the dragon…” Lydia trailed off as his black eyes focused on her intently.  He remained silent and eventually returned to the task at hand as she pressed her lips together and wrung her hands anxiously. 

    “My Thane,” she made a second attempt at conversation that was utterly ignored as he freshened his potion supply, and soul gems (both empty and full).  He was downstairs before she made a third attempt, and grabbed a small bag filled with dried venison and snowberries.

    He heard her take a breath and heard her mouth open but he was faster.  He Shouted Slow Time and exited the house before she could voice anything.  He didn’t have time to deal with her concerns just yet. He wasn’t ready to face Alduin yet, the battle at the Throat of the World had proven this.  He’d almost died.

   And so more training was necessary before he’d face Alduin a second time.  He wanted to make sure he had his affairs in order as well in case he perished.  He needed to talk to Vilkas and Brynolf to make sure the Guilds would be looked after, and to Ulfric or Ralof for everything else.  

   At least if he made a mistake that cost him his life, the guilds would be looked after.  

    It was Brynolf, who’d reminded him that should he perish to Alduin, there would be no world, and thus no reason to worry about the guilds.  The tall Nord had basically called him a coward (without saying so) because he’d assume Raz’han was procrastinating. In truth, the Redguard hadn’t actually thought about it that deeply and hadn’t realized that what he’d thought as cautious, had translated to cowardly for the Nords.

   As the great balcony doors of Dragonsreach opened and he stepped out, Raz’han closed his eyes and let the frigid air of Skyrim come over him.  Despite being born and raised in a hot climate, the dovah inside rumbled in delight at the harsh cold of Skyrim.

   He opened his mouth.

   “ **Odahvhiing** !”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragonspeech bolded as usual. Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

### 3

   The Bard’s College might as well be the jewel of Solitude.  Halls filled with songs and rooms echoing with melodious music. It stood out through the buildings as always a place of life, of learning.  Standing (at least to her) like a beacon amidst the drudgery that was Skyrim. The sky was overcast as usual (the sun rarely shined in this cold part of the world, she’d swear it) and it matched Melody’s mood perfectly.  

   She’d tried to get an audience with Guildmaster Viarmo, convinced that all he needed to do was hear her sing and she’d be in, her voice was lyrical, ready to capture attentions.  She’d been hoping, praying, to be enrolled.

   Ha. What a naive fool she’d been.  

   She never made it into the inner sanctum. Let alone Viarmo himself.  She hadn’t gotten past the Dean, Giraud Gemane. He hadn’t heard her sing, quite the contrary.  He’d looked down his pointed nose at her as though she were an orc (she was no such thing and she didn’t hate the orcs, but bards they were not)... Just because she didn’t play an instrument.  Was her voice not enough to even be considered? Was it not enough to be given a chance to learn an instrument?

   Deep down though, she’d assume it was her appearance that did her in, because she was a half-breed.  Skyrim had proven itself racist on an equal footing as the Summerset Isles and that was saying _a lot_.  She felt a wave of self-pity run up her spine and she squashed it unapologetically.  She was proud of who she was (sort of). She was a Nord… and an Altmer.

   She sighed dejectly, her face downcast beneath her mask as she walked away from her last chance at becoming a true bard.  Yes. She was a bastardized Breton, without really looking like one (except her height… fuck). It was hard to fathom how the two biggest races in the fucking world would create one of the smallest, and how _she_ ended up so gods be damned short.

   She had the skin colour of the Altmer, that golden hue that caught the eye (albeit watered down), with the pointed ears ( _full_ pointy ears as though she were a full-blooded mer).  Nothing screams eye-catcher than a pair of yellow fucking elven ears.  Her face, unlike her elven brethren, was _all_ Nord.  She had none of the sharp, angular features, except her eyes.  Curse them to Oblivion for they were the same colour as septims.  Piss ass yellow.

   And like she mentioned before, her height left much to be desired for.  She was lucky if she was eye to eye with the smallest Nords (and they were rare and far between).  It boggled her mind how much she resembled a tiny Altmer (even saying the words _tiny_ and _Altmer_ together was odd) when she wore her mask (as she did now).  It had caused her plenty of problems in the past (still fucking did in all honesty), and even after they uncovered her face (her Nordic features could not be denied), the colour of her skin had mattered (although her skin wasn’t even that gold!).

   She growled low to herself and pushed back her darkening thoughts. Now was not the time to wallow.  She had a mission to achieve. Create something empowering and epic. She had to create a Masterpiece. _The Masterpiece._  So she could shove it in Giraud’s fucking haughty face (rub his nose in it more like).  

   There was only one way to achieve such an epicness.  To find such an excited persona to convert battles and achievements into songs and ballads.  And to do so, she needed to find the Dragonborn. No other would do (not since she’d seen him anyways).

   She’d followed his passing discreetly, through rumours and gossip and sightings.  She’d barely missed him in Solitude, had been but hours behind him in Rorikstead. And he was hard to miss.

    A tall, wide Redguard with skin that was kissed by the hot Hammerfell sun.  She’d seen him once, wearing glass armour. Her eyes had followed him like he’d been Divine sent (and if we were being technical, he kinda was).  Like the other foolish women in Markath (there had been more than a couple heartfelt gasps), she had been smitten (it had been love/lust at first sight for her.  

   He’d come to kill a dragon that had been pestering the Reach, a big nasty Ancient dragon.  She’d watched, like the others, how he’d fought the beast bravely and alone. He’d not even shown fear and had thrown himself at the animal like he was possessed.  And when he’d climbed in the animal’s head, she’d chewed at her lower lip in anxiety. Her heart had lurched in both fear and awe as the creature had perished surrounded by a cloud of dirt.  

    Her jaw had dropped, and she gaped like a fish.  He had killed the dragon within a couple of hours, a true to gods, dragon.  Impressive by any standards. She’d cheered as loud as she could along with the rest of the populace.  She’d been quick to make to the gates to get a closer look at him.

    Mel had barely seen his face (he wore a helmet) when he returned to speak to the Jarl, but she had seen his eyes.  Black, bottomless pits that felt like they could swallowed her soul. They’d made eye contact, and what had probably been a forgotten moment for him, had changed her life forever (kinda… she may be over dramatizing).  She’d fallen for him right then and there though.

   She’d always wanted to be a bard, but had never really aspired to much.  She’d been rejected enough (this had not been her first attempt). But when she made eye contact, right there , she had _known_ .  If she wanted to excel and become a Master Bard, she needed _him_.  He would find his glory, and her songs would tell of it.  It pushed her to following that dream, chasing it really. (And quite literally.)

   She just had to find him again.

   In Rorikstead, she’d learned that he had a permanent home in Whiterun.  She figured if she found him there, she could follow him discreetly, or mayhaps offer him her services.  She was handy with a blade, and her hands were quick. Lock-picking was practically second nature.

   She could probably have him accept (she was really unsure of herself), and then she could watch him.  See him as a man, and write… her thoughts trailed off. Her imagination was running away from her, _again_.  There was no way, in all the Planes of Oblivion, the Dragonborn could ever be interested in her.  

   Her eyes fell to her gloved hands that she’d unconsciously clenched into fists.  She forced them open. She knew what she was worth. Accepting it, and moving on was the order of the day.

   She needed that song.   

   Mel gritted her teeth, as she jumped over a felled giant’s club, and grunted as she almost fell forward.  Damn giants and their need for trees as weapons. She muttered to herself and picked up the pace. She didn’t want to miss him again.  Whiterun was just a jog across the plains. She feared her teeth would crack, a fucking ten mile jog. Oh lovely, a sabercat to the west, keep south Mel, keep south.

   She was slightly out of breath by the time she made it to the Whiterun stables.  Her armors we’re sticking to her skin from her sweat and she thanked the cool breezes of Skyrim at the moment.  The carriage driver that sat near the road did not make eye contact with her. Although, her fine hearing did hear his slurred typical Altmer snub (it wasn’t even original… 'Thalmor scum'… eye roll), but she ignored it.  Why was _every_ Altmer part of the Thalmor?  She had bigger fish to fry than knock a drunken slob of Nordic hospitality off his wagon.  Although it was highly tempting...

   The guards, on the other hand, she couldn’t ignore.  Entry into Whiterun had just cost her a hefty sum of four hundred golden septims.  Gods be damned, they were nothing but rotten thieves. Just like in Riften. She was mildly surprised though that they had allowed her in (if she were truly honest, it had happened before… cough… Riften… cough, take her gold but deny her entry...).       

   Once inside, Mel did not waste any time.  She had to find the other exits out of town that could be reached quickly and safely (that didn’t include guards).  Too many times had she found herself on the wrong end of the guards’ swords for no other reason than looking like a thief (and perhaps she was, but she had to eat as well.  She was _trying_ to earn an honest living as a Bard).  Knowing your exits increased your chances of survival, something she’d learned the _hard_ way.  

   A discrete question to a small child by the name of Lucia pointed her in the direction of Breezehome, his home.  The Dragonborn’s. It was crunch time now. She’d stood in front of the house for what had felt like an eternity (definitely the better part of the day), hoping to perhaps have a chance encounter when he returned or exited.  It never happened. She would have to knock.

   Fuck.

   She swallowed the dry lump in her throat and cracked her knuckles.  She could do this, it was as easy as sneaking into Windhelm (for fuck’s sake, she needed to stop being such a pessimist).  Whatever would have happened, had she knocked, would never be revealed, for her girdling of knocking was interrupted by salacious gossip that she managed to pick up.    

   Her elven ears twitched as she overheard from the Market Square a couple of ladies exclaim loudly about the new conquest the Dragonborn had achieved.  Something that made her freeze in place. A dragon had been captured in Dragonsreach. A real one! Like Numinex! Holy fuck!

   She had found the Dragonborn, and a dragon.  There was no way her song wouldn’t be written.

    She stopped stalking his front door and speed walked her way to Dragonsreach.  There was a smile on her face (hidden by the cowl she always wore) that would have been blinding in her excitement.  This lasted until she reached the doors and a couple guards stepped in her path and theoretically shield bashed her dreams.

   “Official business only!” one of the guards barked.  She blinked at him.

    “I wish to see the dragon?” her voice lacked confidence in the stoney silence that followed.

    “No.” Both guards spoke in unison.  She turned away dejected.

    She spent the rest of the day waiting for the change of the guard, and when it happened she was quick to approach with a different tact.  She cursed silently as she jingled her coin pouch to the lone female guard. The sun was already setting and it would be dark soon.

   “Would you let me in for a hundred septims?  I swear I just wish to speak to the dragon…” she trailed off as the guard first glanced left and then right.

   “Make it two and I look the other way.”

   She seethed inwardly (fucking thieving bastards), but counted out a gold pouch anyways. “Deal.”

   The guard pocketed the septims and turned her back to her.  The was a moment's pause where Mel actually debated pickpocketing the money back, but she decided against it.  She was _in_ , no need to visit the dungeon this eve.  She took a fortifying breath and slipped inside while the guard was still looking yonder.

   It was crunch time.  

   Her song would not write itself, and it would most certainly not write itself in the dungeon.  She cast Muffle and disappeared into the darkness that was Dragonsreach, the heavy doors closing behind her with an ominous sound of finality.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

###  4

     She was in Oblivion.  

     It didn’t matter which Plane, they were all equally atrocious no matter which way you looked at it.  She’d lost everything when Ulfric had waltzed into the Blue Palace and had Shouted Torygg to pieces. 

Literally.

_ Everything _ .

   Yes, Skyrim had lost its Monarch, but Elisif the Fair had lost her husband, her best friend, the father of their future children (they’d talked about them  _ so much _ …) and her rock.  Torygg had been her  _ everything _ .  His laughing and smiling face had haunted her since he’d died, she dreamt of him constantly.  There were times when she sat on her throne and she’d spot him with the corner of her eye (she’d get hopeful every time, and crushed just as quickly when it always turned out to be someone else or just a trick of the light).  She even smelt him (he’d smelt like a mixture of incense, from the Temple, spices and leather) throughout the halls and especially in their bedroom.

She’d been thrust into his position (she’d have willingly offered her own life to bring him back if it were possible), shouldering the weighty burden on shoulders much too slim to carry it.  

   Every day was the same, day in and day out.  She would sit on his throne (it would always be  _ his _ throne in her mind), straight backed, regal and tense, and watch the wolves (for that is what they looked like to her) of her court surround her from all sides.  They were waiting for weakness, and could smell hers from miles (she was sure Ulfric could as well). The prospect was terrifying, and put her in a near constant state of anxiety.

    The Thalmor were in and out of her Palace at will (in her defense, one could not control the Aldmeri Dominion).  The presence of the Altmers did not increase her popularity either, despite the fact that she was not the one who signed the Concordat (Torygg hadn’t signed it either).  The Emperor had struck the terms and the High King had followed orders. 

And matters only grew worst for her.  She’d had no military knowledge and had been forced by General Tullius to accept whatever he said with regards to orders (Torygg had been an amazing tactician and had been the one to order the men).  She’d been cowed by her own steward to defer almost everything to him. She was reduced to quite literally being nothing more than a figure head. 

The head of the snake so to speak.

She missed Torygg.

He’d always had a knack for politics that had always escaped her and it wasn't just in the throne room she missed him.  Theirs had been a love marriage, their marriage bed a haven from the cruel world outside. 

    She took a deep breath and straightened.  A Thalmor Justicar sought an audience with her.  He brought more distressing news of the Stormcloak Dragonborn.  A man of her nightmares made flesh. If the Stormcloaks won the civil war… 

   She shook her head, clearing her mind of distressing thoughts of slavery and death.  She had to focus on the Thalmor officer.

    The Dragonborn had killed yet another dragon.  This one single-handedly… he’d even threatened the Jarl of Markarth (he’d thought the pay a pittance).  What was she going to do if a dragon came to Solitude? The seat of the Legion/Empire would be the last place the Dragonborn would enter and her people would suffer because of it.

    She bowed her head regally as the Thalmor finished his report and advised her that the Dominion would send a dozen battlemages to help guard Solitude in the event a dragon would show up and with it the Dragonborn.

    She nodded again and the Justicar took his leave.  She felt all eyes on her (none were friendly despite this being her court) and fought the urge to slump in on herself.  She had to retain her poise no matter what.

    Hours passed much as they always did.  She was forced to endure them in silence.  There was no escape for her. She was escorted by guards everywhere she went (they were Torygg’s guards but that didn’t change anything).  She was a prisoner in her own home, and it was just time for the midday meal. 

She moved, fluidly even though she wanted to simply slouch, and stood from his throne (she had to make it to the dining hall).  Her chair was pulled out, she sat again with grace and fought the quiver of fear that reared its ugly head at having more people at her back.  At least on his throne she felt relatively safe, her back to the wall, always facing the wolves. No one to sneak up behind and whisper their  _ advice _ to her. 

Her meal was the same as the others (she barely tasted it as it was), and she was forced to endure the new routine that went with it: Courtiers whispering about the Stormcloaks, the Dragonborn, Alduin and the war (it was a wonder she actually ate at all).

Her Thanes and Housecarl lined the walls decked in well worn armor.  Their mere presence didn’t make her feel safe, quite the contrary, she felt trapped.  She ate enough to not draw questions to her appetite, she was still in mourning though most of the court seemed to not care a wit. 

The food tasted like over-salted beef and over-cooked root vegetables.  She didn’t care, nor did she complain. Her cook was taciturn enough as it was.  And so Elisif ate, she ignored the spiders crawling under her skin as long as she could (best way she could describe how she felt at the moment).  But she could feel it, that thundering of her blood in her veins as she glanced and accidentally made eye contact with Erikur. His dark eyes found hers for a split moment and the dam started to break (oh no…). 

_ She had to move _ .  

When she excused herself from the table, (she wanted to scream and sob as everyone stood and bowed  _ slowly _ ), instead she politely nodded her head regally and walked deliberately from the table, her back straight and elegant.  She could hear the booted steps of her Housecarl as he followed behind her, her constant silent shadow. 

She didn’t glance back when she finally reached  _ his _ office, she didn’t need to.  Bolgeir never left her side. 

“I would like to go over some reading alone.” Was all she got out before she knew her voice would give.  Her right hand held onto a tight fist at her side, hidden in her skirts, the emerald ring Torygg had given her on their first wedding anniversary had flipped on her finger.  The press of the razor sharp stone on her skin, the only tiny thing keeping her together as Bolgeir bowed. 

She had to wait ( _ please hold on _ ).  Just another moment ( _ gods… one more minute _ ).  Enough time for Bolgeir to leave and stand at the end of the hall, out of hearing ( _ please… _ ). 

Then the dam broke. 

Her breathing turned harsh, lungs refusing to fill or expand (she was drowning).  Her chest tight, vision blurred and her knees smacked to the rug-covered stone floor.  The crown on her hair skewing to the side as she gasped and just barely held back her meal from coming back up her throat.

And there, on the floor of  _ his _ office, Elisif the Fair lost control of her emotions, and like everything else that was going on in her life.  She did this  _ alone _ . 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragonspeech bolded as usual! Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

### 5

   There were no words in his native tongue that could adequately describe how Oda felt at this very moment.  He could think of a few in the Common tongue but they wouldn’t be of much use to him at this very moment.

    The Dragonborn, a Redguard with penetrating (more like soul sucking) black eyes, was staring him down right now.  Somehow the tiny human (his Atmoran form was a good foot taller) had learned that dragon names were indeed words of power.  Which brings us to how Oda found himself in this particular situation.

   He had been _captured_.  Him!?  Captured!  By tiny humans!!

   A wooden harness had been dropped on his neck and he found himself pinned to the floor of Dragonsreach.  No matter how hard he thrashed or moved, there was no dislodging the bar (he could transform but had no wish to reveal that particular secret right now).  

    The small Redguard had remained impassive and cool as he’d stared Oda down, it was a little unnerving.  And then he’d Shouted Unrelenting Force at him and it was game over. The puny human had a powerful voice, stronger than Oda’s, but not stronger than Alduin’s.  The worm couldn’t bring a dragon back to life if he wanted to and Oda would not bow to a Thu’um weaker than Alduin’s.

    The dragon squared his shoulders mentally.  This would just be another humiliating death for Oda to add to his growing list, but he would not betray his master.  He’d let the human believe he’d won, and it would be easy to do. The mortals were notoriously short-sighted being so short lived (Oda could sleep a century if he was so inclined).

   So the Redguard wanted Alduin.  He could have him, not that Alduin would mind, on the contrary Alduin would expect Oda to deliver.  Nothing could kill the dragon god, nothing could penetrate his scales, let alone withstand his Shout.  It still never ceased to amaze Oda how often mortals believed they could kill the World Eater.

    “Tell me where your master hides,” The Redguard was impassive, his black soulless eyes narrowing a smidgen as he stared Oda down.

    Oda kept his Fire Breath from escaping his jaws just barely.  Oh but he wanted to melt the armour on the Redguard, preferably with said Redguard _in_ the armour.  The dragon opened his mouth to speak when his sensitive hearing (by sensitive we mean a thousand times better than even the mer) picked up something that was _separate_.

    Oda focused on the noise, silent scuffing of muffled boots.  Someone was sneaking about. The dragon raised his head as far as he could and inhaled deeply, ignoring the fearful mutters of the guards surrounding him.  They thought he was about to unleash a Shout when he was merely inspecting the odora.

    Sweat, men and mer, the distinct exotic smell of the Redguard (how did he pull off smelling like the desert in Skyrim?), the foulness of mortal flesh clung to the stone walls of Dragonsreach like a second skin.  He couldn’t identify the muffled boots which meant they were indistinguishable from the rest of the common rabble. His curiousity dwindled until the he spotted the big double doors that led into the great castle cracking open.

    “Tell me!” the Redguard snarled in an attempt to get Oda to speak (it didn’t work).

    Oda was busy watching an invisible (dragons could _see_ magic in a way that mortals could only pretend to understand) black-clothed golden woman creep in (Oooo he loved the Altmers).  His dragon’s eye roved longingly over the golden flesh he could see. She glowed in the powerful auras of Alterations, Illusions and Destructions, the other schools were diminished but not by much.  Ergo she was an excellent mage.

    He could tell by her stance that she also dabbled with Stealth, so a thieving/assassin sorceress.  Oh but he liked the sound of that even more. Oda kept his now glowing eyes on the invisible woman and he took another deep inhale, looking for her particular scent.  He stilled and his eyes narrowed as she crept as close to the edge of the entryway as she could, her gloves her gripping the wall. Her golden eyes fixated on _him_.

    He growled low in his throat, sending vibrations across the entire floor of the room.  More nervous titter from almost everyone present as they misunderstood the signals he was sending.  He didn’t care, dragons were quite open with their affections, not caring about such a mortal concept as privacy.  He hadn’t been able to identify her scent and that had piqued Oda’s interest like she’d just declared she was the last female dovah.  And then the present situation in which Oda found himself was brought back to him in a most embarrassing manner.

    The Dragonborn had signaled for the guards to crank on a couple of levers that forced his head even lower to the ground, bouncing his jaw off the floor.  More chains were tightened across his wings, flattening him more. He opened his mouth and roared angrily, his head thrashing about for a moment before the chains brought him back under control.       

    The woman’s golden eyes had widened at the show she was presented with and Oda tensed uncomfortably.  His eyes narrowed. Okay… he could handle this. He had a plan. He had to get her detained so he would know where she was, throw the puny human at Alduin in Skuldafn, return and free the mer.  He’d need a day at most to fly there and back and he could be in between the _scentless_ mer’s thighs within a couple days.  He growled low in his throat at the visual and started salivating.  Would she be tasteless too?

    A glass boot placed itself on his snout and Oda inhaled in a hiss, some frost and ice was slowly forming along the seam of his mouth, part of his fangs encasing in the ice.  He controlled his temper and realized he needed to get the woman out of here. He didn’t want her to see him like this any longer.

    “ **You expect me to tell you my secrets when you can’t even guard your own** ,” Oda snarled against the floor, “Even now a spy watches you, **Dragonborn**.”  

    And just like that, the boot removed itself from his face and the Redguard had launched himself at the woman.  Oda winced as he collided with the small woman (so she was a small Altmer…?) with more force than was necessary.  They rolled on the ground for a moment until he got the upper hand and pinned her down. The Redguard grabbed her by the throat and Shouted Kyne’s Peace directly in her face.

    Oda approved as the woman calmed instantly and when the Dragonborn threw her at awaiting guards when they were standing, she didn’t even struggle, rather she looked disoriented and went with the guards almost willingly.

    “Take her to the dungeons!” the Dragonborn had snapped angrily and had been obeyed.  The black eyes returned to stare at Oda after the woman had been removed and narrowed. “You could see her?” he asked.

    Oda snorted. “ **I** **heard** **her**.” The black eyes narrowed more.  Oda rolled his own before he repeated himself, “I heard her.”  

    “Willing to speak now?”

    Oda was silent for a moment, doing mental calculations.  He raised his head as high off the ground as he could (which was not very high). “Send your men away, **Dragonborn** , and I will speak to you alone.”

    The black eyes were staring down at Oda impassively for a long moment before the Redguard nodded his head and ordered the area cleared.  A few guards spoke up but they shut their mouths when the Dragonborn stared them down. Oda had to admit, the man had presence.

    It was a few minutes before the Redguard glanced down at Oda and nodded. “We are alone.”

    The dragon didn’t wait and transformed.  Red and black smoke encircled Oda and the chains that had been dropped on him, clambered to the floor, their rattling echoing in the empty room ominously.  The heavy wooden yoke tilted dangerously to the side now that it wasn’t resting on his neck. Oda vanished briefly as he shrunk in on himself and straightened when he was in his Atmoran form.  The Redguard had taken a step back and had unsheathed his sword, his eyes wide.

    “ **Now** ,” Oda began, lowering his head to look down at the puny mortal who was staring up at him in shock and surprise. “This is the first secret,” he motioned to himself, “As for the second,” he folded his arms across his naked chest, “I’ll take you where you need to go, but that woman you just had arrested is mine.” The Dragonborn was still staring at him as though he’d grown a second head and Oda sighed heavily. “This is a limited time offer,” the dragon peered at the mortal.

    “Can all dragons do this…”

    “ **Yes** ,” Oda nodded.

    “Alduin…?”

    “You want Alduin, I want the woman.”

    The Redguard nodded slowly, still eyeing Oda suspiciously.  The Atmoran unfolded his big arms and held out a hand towards the Dragonborn.  A red eyebrow arched in question. It was a moment before a Glass gauntlet reached forward and grasped Oda’s forearm.

    “You can call me Oda,” Oda introduced himself formally, he might as well get to know the enemy.  

    “Raz’han.”

    “Oh that’s a mouthful,” Oda winced, releasing the Redguard, “Razzle is much better.” Black eyes narrowed and Oda grinned widely down at the puny mortal, showing all his teeth, “Razzle Dazzle suits you beautifully.”

      The human’s reaction was exactly what Oda was looking for.  He’d tensed and his eyes had become mere slits a la Alduin. He was going to have fun with this mortal before Alduin swallowed him whole.     


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragonspeech bolded as usual! Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

###  6

    The dragon, Oda, was proving to be more trouble than he was worth.  Rather than just release the woman that had somehow snuck up on him, the creature had insisted that he  _ rescue _ her.  

    Raz'han had rubbed the bridge of his nose as Oda explained the plan.  The woman had been thrown in the dungeons, and he was sure had already been questioned by the torturer.  Raz was to make his way towards the dungeons to question the prisoner, he was not to sneak, and make sure his footsteps were heard.

    Oda had explained that the Altmer prisoner was a stealth master and would escape the prison on her own.  Raz just had to not see her, and allow her to run. Oda would take care of the rest, and he'd get Raz to Alduin without even breaking a sweat.  The dragon wanted the woman out of danger, and once she was out of the city, then all would go according to plan.

    He'd followed the dragon's precise directions, ignoring the crouched woman in the darkness as he walked by towards her cell.  He kept the guards focused forward, making sure to keep them in line as she dived out behind him. Oda had been correct in his assumption.  The woman barely made any noise as she ran away from his retreating back. As the leader of the Thieves guild, Raz was able to appreciate her stealth in a way that others would not, but that's besides the point.  

    They reached her cell and he reacted exactly like he was supposed to.  Ordering that she be captured alive, stressing this (Oda had promised to not kill any guards in the ensuing battle).  True to his word, the moment the woman had bolted into the sewers, Oda had merely stepped over the hole and lowered his weapon.  

    The guards had not moved until Raz'han had reached the commotion, outside of Dragonsreach.  The giant red man stood straight over the sewers, his big two-handed battle-axe low. It was still unbelievable that in that big human form, a dragon lurked.  A true monster on two legs.

    Raz stopped about ten feet away from Oda. "You get what you wanted?" 

     "Yes," Oda answered, sheathing his weapon.

     Raz'han nodded. "Then your end of the bargain will be fulfilled tonight."

     Oda smiled faintly and nodded. "You are eager for death, Razzle, a shame really, I like you."

     "I told you not to call me that," black eyes narrowed to slits of calculated ire.

     "Meet me in the plains below," Oda grinned, "And I'll take you where you need to go."

 

*************

Raz’han had been standing in the plains, as visible as possible for any dragon to find him, for what felt like hours when the big red warrior finally appeared.  The Redguard scowled as the bigger man started stripping off his clothes until he was completely nude.

It was odd to watch the Atmoran vanish within a burst of light and a cloud of red smoke only to re-emerge within a few heartbeats as a big red dragon.  He was Shouting to the sky with his wings spread wide. He turned his spiked, horned head so that he was looking at Raz with one blue eye.

“Climb on my neck,” Oda lowered his head closer to the ground, “I will take you to Skuldafn.”

Raz did not hesitate and seated himself behind Oda’s horns.  The dragon roared and took flight. His gauntleted hands clenched uncontrollably as he held onto the horns.  This was the first time the Dragonborn had ever taken to flight.

“Hang on!” Oda said loudly.  He was glad he had immediately listened to the dragon because a few seconds after he’d said the words, Oda had brought them high into the sky.  His wings making them gain altitude at an alarming pace. This was not a smooth ride by any stretch of the imagination.

And then Oda folded his wings close to his body and had dived eastward.  They were higher than the Throat of the World. Raz’s heart slammed into overdrive as the ground rushed towards them.  He knew the dragon would open his wings, but the feeling of falling from the sky reminded him that he was very much alive.  One mistake and Oda was going to kill them both.

They were about halfway down the Throat of the World when Oda spread his wings and gained altitude once more.  Raz’s hands relaxed as the dragon began gliding across the Rift. They were going a lot faster than the Dragonborn had realized although considering how fast Oda had dropped, he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

The sun was rising by the time Oda spoke to him again. “ **There** !” he called, “Straight ahead, do you see it?”

Raz nodded, forgetting that he was riding Oda and the dragon could not see him. “Yes!” he answered.

The temple was built into the Velothi Mountains with a large plateau where Oda landed.  The Dragonborn dismounted and unsheathed his ebony sword. The dragon chuckled behind him.

“You sought this,  **Dragonborn** ,” Odahviing reminded him.  Raz did not respond, he glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at the red dragon instead. “Good luck, Razzle!” Oda continued and then spread his wings and departed, leaving Raz’han alone on the platform.

He dropped into a sneak position and strapped his ebony shield to his forearm.  There was work to be done here, Draugr to kill and a dragon to slay. He could hear one up ahead that he knew was not Oda.  Alduin could also be lurking somewhere around here if he was present.

Raz took care to maintain as much stealth as he could, his life depended on it.  He did not possess the ability to cast fancy spells, nor did he ever plan on learning.  He was a warrior and a thief, not a mage.  

He spotted the Draugr first.  The long dead heroes that wandered the ancient tombs were a nuisance.  His bow dispatched most with one arrow, and he wasn’t detected or so he had thought.  

There was a noise behind him.  He turned and things happened in slow motion after that.  Standing not even five feet behind him, had been a Draugr Death Lord (distinguishable from all others by a black long-horned helm).  The undead had stood straight and tall. Raz knew before the creature Shouted that he was going to die.

His body had tensed and he used Whirlwind Sprint but he was facing the wrong way (he’d been in the process of turning).  The added momentum of his Whirlwind Sprint to the Unrelenting Force Shout from the Death Lord made his toss off the side of Skuldafn that much more horrifying.     

He’d almost gone straight up into the sky, his arms and legs flailing as though he would grow wings that would save his life.  The sun was just cresting and it reflected off his glass armour for a brief second before he started falling down. He prayed to Tava and Ius briefly to grant him wings.

It must have been forty feet before he hit the side of the mountain with his back.  Something crunched and he grunted. He rolled hard, hitting trees and rocks along the way.  He tried to grab at anything, his arm broke and he dislocated his shoulder when he grabbed at a tree, the snapping noise that echoed had not been a branch.  His hip shattered on the rocks, all his ribs broke as he tumbled down the mountain. He did stop his wild fall when his back his a tree. More crunching noises.  

He was still alive… barely.  

Blood dripped into his eyes, so he closed them.  Adrenaline was flooding his body, his heart was pounding like a war drum.  He could hear pieces of his armour roll down the mountain. He’d lost his sword and shield.  Pain of the likes he had never felt before flared for a second before he lost consciousness.

His breathing was shallow, and blood was pouring from everywhere.  His last coherent thought before the blackness claimed him was that if he died out here…

Alduin wins.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragonspeech bolded as usual! Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

###  7

It had taken her exactly one whole day to escape the Whiterun dungeons.  The only reason it had taken so long was because they had felt the need to torture her a little before hand.  She’d waited until the hulking Nord that had lashed her left her cell before jumping into action. Maybe jumping into action was not the right choice of words.  Her back was on fire, she’d have to heal as soon as she made it out of here. That big asshole with the black mask had aimed to hurt and he had. She could admit that to herself.     


They had truly believed she was a fucking Thalmor spy.  It hadn’t mattered to them that she had been cast out of the Summerset Isles  _ years _ ago.  Her own mother had seen to it (yes, she had a  _ pleasant _ childhood).    


She’d not said a word about anything and had waited for her cell to be empty.  Mel’s wrists had cut on the manacles and she was still bleeding when she’d tried to slip her hand out of the iron cuff.  A sound of relief had escaped her throat briefly and her joints stiffened once she was able to stand on her own.

Her body protested painfully when she reached up to her hair to pull out a lockpick she’d stowed away for exactly this purpose.  This was not her first time breaking out of jail. She was a professional by now if nothing else. She stifled a cry of pain as she took a step towards the ancient lock that stood between her and freedom.  There were potions waiting for her with her things. She just had to get to them.       


There was an attempt at healing, but her magicka did not respond to her call. Her stamina was fucked as well, but she’d recover herself in no time. She just needed to get out of here first.  Her hands, though shaky as fuck, knew what had to be done, and it was mere seconds before she heard the reassuring click.

The halls were quiet when she eased her way out of her cell.  She was leaving a blood trail she knew, but somethings just could not be helped. It took her all of five minutes find the chest where they’d stashed her belongings, and she was dressed in her usual garbs in no time at all.  She wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of getting blood all over her shit, but beggars can't be choosers.

She cursed mentally as she double checked the chest.  The fucking guards had stolen all her potions, and most of her gold (they really were thieving bastards, the lot of them). She grimaced as her tight leather armour scraped against her sensitive and sore back.  She had been counting on those potions.

She dropped to a crouching position when voices reached her ears.  Fuck, the Dragonborn was coming to interrogate her now. Fuck, fuck, fuck!  Nocturnal guide her, she had to make herself scarce. She did not have time to waste any more.  She hugged the wall, and backed away into a darkened corner, out of the torch light, she didn’t have the magicka to cast Muffle, but that didn’t matter, she was light on her feet. She just wanted a glimpse of him before she vanished.  A tiny glimpse.

Her heart fluttered as she spotted his glass armoured profile (he was  _ magnificent _ ) as he walked in front of the hall where she was hiding in, followed by three guards (as if he’d need the guards to help him).  Mel didn’t wait for them to find her cell empty, so as soon as they were out of sight, she made a run for it.

She made no noise as she dived for the locked door of the prison.  Her hands were shaking still (with adrenaline this time) as she picked the lock expertly. They’d find her gone any second now.

One. She turned the pick to the left, it jiggled a little.

Two. A smidgen to the right, she heard a click and relief washed over her.

Three. Booted heels started getting louder, accompanied by the shouts of guards.  She didn’t hear his voice but then again she’d thrown open the doors and had bolted like a hare.  Her lungs burned but freedom. The guards had already sounded the alarm, and she was slowing. The loss of blood had started to take effect.

She could  _ see _ the sewer grate when she was surrounded.  Seven guards in all. 

Fuck.

Her pleasant stay in the Whiterun dungeons was about to be extended, maybe permanently. She closed her eyes in defeat.  She didn’t stand a chance, not without her magicka and stamina. Mel was about to drop to her knees in surrender when a bellow of a warcry was heard from out of nowhere; followed by a swinging, two-handed battle-axe that appeared in her line of sight.

Her eyes had widened when a burly half naked warrior came into view.  Who...was...that…? It happened so quickly that the only thing she saw was red, and then his scarred back was to her.  He didn’t turn to look at her as he hefted his weapon high, becoming a veritable wall between her and the guards.  

“Run!” he yelled at her.

Fuck yes.  

She didn’t wait for the big red Nord (she guessed he was, just by his bulk and his love for the two-handers) to finish the guards (they were Nords too as luck would have it) and dove for the sewer grate.  She didn’t hear anything as she squeezed herself in the tiny opening, but then again adrenaline was coursing through her veins.  

Mel cried out in pain when her abused body hit the water (oh gods, numb her please!), and she hesitated but a moment before crawling/swimming with the flow of the water. She knew from experience that the water would lead her outside, to freedom.

She just had to make it there.  Nocturnal guide her she would fucking make it.

Her teeth hurt by the time she squeezed herself between two of the bars at the end of the sewer (and this was why she was proud being a tiny Altmer, no other race except the full-fledged Bretons and Bosmers could pull this off); her wounds opening all over again due to the tight fit and the rusted bars scraping against her soaked armor.  Just a little further...

The big Nord would never have been able to follow her through the sewers, his bulk would have never passed the grate.  A visual of his muscular back popped into her thoughts for a split second. He probably had the strength to tear the bars from the very walls (or at the very least kick them out).

She couldn’t suppress her agonized cries of pain as she hit the rocks on the way down the creek, she knew for a fact she didn’t miss a single fucking one either, including the wooden bridge she crawled over.  The waterfall didn’t surprise her as much as it should, though she felt her pain as she fell over the edge into a shallow spring. By the time she stopped moving, she’d come to a small pool of water that was in the plains below Whiterun (on the western side).  A mudcrab squealed at her and she gave it a good kick (while sprawled on the ground mind you) to send it flying onto its back before it wounded her further.

She made a second attempt at calling her magicka and almost panicked as it remained silent.  Her heart was pounding so hard that it rendered her dizzy. What in Oblivion had they used on her? She groaned and laid there staring at the night stars, looking over constellations almost in a daze. Gods she was in pain…

Mel could hear the mudcrab squeaking angrily, and the clicking its armour was doing as it fought to right itself without success.  Like that mudcrab, she’d have to get up off her back soon and try to make for the safety of the trees or a cave.   _ Anything _ .  She couldn’t just laze here indefinitely.  All sorts of predators roamed the area, and the last thing she wanted was to be chewed on (or crushed by a wandering mammoth).

None of her moans were silenced as she struggled to her feet weakly. Oh, gods...the pain! She stumbled and almost fell over as her knees buckled beneath her weight. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to stand. She’d survived worst, and gods be damned, she’d survive this horse shit too.

Westward.  She knew there was a cave near, Redoran’s Retreat. She’d just make her way there and worry about healing when she could safely sleep.  She’d sleep off this poison they had given her, and then heal the worst of her wounds. She was bleeding still and she could already hear the distant howling of the Skyrim wolves.  They’d find her soon if she didn’t hurry.

The going was slow and deliberate, and she couldn’t even cast Candlelight. The moons lit what they could, and she eased her way carefully, not wanting to stumble and hurt herself more.  As she walked her mind was dragged back to the red warrior. Who had he been? Did she know him? Why had he helped her? Had he even survived? At last count, he’d taken on seven guards by himself. More had surely come. Her breath caught as she thought of who else had been coming to see her and no doubt would have been on her heels with the rest of the guards.

The Dragonborn.

There was no way the burly warrior had survived if  _ he _ had entered the fray.  Had he? She felt a moment of sadness at the thought that she might never be able to thank that warrior for saving her life. The only Nord to have done so, and she didn’t even know his name (or what he looked like come to think of it, all she’d seen was red and a wide, scarred back…).

She grunted in pain as her ankle rolled and she realized she had to stop.  Mel was exhausted, and weak.  Bloody guards stealing her healthy stock of potions sure put a fucking damper on things.  The next time she entered Whiterun, she’d fucking raid the barracks and see how they fucking liked it. She’d make sure of it.  If she returned that was…

She felt herself fold in half, supporting her hands on her thighs, taking deep calming breaths.  She was trying to ease the pain with meditation, but it wasn’t working. Gods be damned she was in so much fucking pain right now… 

A colourful curse escaped her throat as she almost fell off a rock ledge.  Redoran was just over this part (maybe). And it wasn’t...instead she could see the fires of a giant’s camp to her right (Bleakwind Basin she guessed). She dragged herself across the streams that snaked in her path.  Her legs were shaking as she managed to cross more jagged rocks without hurting herself more.

She sighed in relief when her feet finally hit the smooth road. Thank the Divines for small mercies. Now she just had to cross the bridge and she’d be there (another maybe). Her entire body hurt as she forced herself across. She could see the tattered and waving Redoran flags just across the field (not too far now). She wobbled and her teeth tightened in her mouth as she stumbled and lost her footing. She was right there!

Fuck.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she slid down the rock ledge, landing on her back right before the doors of the Retreat.  This would have to do for now. She was unable to move any further. She was about to lose consciousness when she heard a dragon’s roar echo across the plains.

Oh, for fuck’s sakes!  Really?! A fucking dragon?  Could the night get any more pleasant?

She waited, tense as all Oblivion (and so much pain it caused) for the ground to shake signalling the dragon’s landing, and when nothing happened, she relaxed and closed her eyes.  She didn’t care that she was on the doorstep of Redoran’s Retreat. She was safe enough here was her last thoughts before she lost consciousness.    



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

###  8

It was the night of her wedding and Torygg was carrying her effortlessly through the palace.  She was glowing, her smile radiant and real. She was happy here. She had known happiness however brief it had been.    


The castle felt empty except for them, but they knew better there were always guards nearby.  She clung to his muscular neck while he whispered loving words down to her. They kissed and suddenly she found herself beneath him in their marriage bed. The fur felt like silk and the cloth was soft, cool. He was her first and only lover.  She’d ceded her virginity to him long before their wedding night but this felt new, special.   


She can hear her voice echoing in the darkness as she exclaimed how much she loved him, her arms clutching his wide shoulders, her nails raking along his skin leaving red marks across the solid expanse of his back.  He moaned in her ear, whispering words of love, safe words.

Her eyes filled with tears and her heart swelled almost painfully.  Her vision swirled in front of her eyes and Torygg’s face transformed… into Ulfric’s.  She screamed.

“Aaaarrghhh!” her scream echoed in the emptiness that is her room.  Elisif the Fair sat up in her bed, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she bursts into immediate tears.  Her nightdress was soaked in sweat, and her small body was shivering with cold. Every sheet was wrapped tight about her body and the pillows were strewn across the floor and foot of the bed.

She’d dreamt of Torygg again, like usual.  A wonderful dream that had cut deep as the reality that he was dead manifested itself again in her mind.  Had he been alive, he would have jolted awake with her and would be holding her in his big arms against his solid chest right now.  Comforting her.   


Her eyes are clenched closed, her tears flowing non-stop.  She was panting as she brought her knees up close to her chest and buried her face between them like a child.  She bawled silently into her furs, her arms hugging her legs tightly. Her hair was falling over her arms in a wet, tangled mess.  Elisif’s teeth sunk into the tender flesh of her inner cheek. She can taste blood but ignores it. The iron familiar to her taste buds like the alto wine with dinner every night.   


She had to breathe.  She had to get herself under control.    


“Torygg…” she whispered his name into her furs like a prayer, her voice shaking, “I can’t d-do t-this without you…”

There is no reply.  There never was. Her room is silent, and dark.  She is alone in their big bed, the furs are damp.  Her breathing finally eased enough that she falls back onto her back on the down mattress.  She swallowed and turned her tear-stained face towards the window so that she could stare blankly at the darkness outside until she fell asleep again.    


************

No mention was made to her about her appearance in the morning.  She’d applied some cooling snow to her eyes before calling for the maid to help her dress.  Elisif had fixed her bed to resemble a restful night’s sleep too. Her pillows were back where they were supposed to be rather than on the floor.    


She had walked, straight-backed, to the dining hall and taken the morning meal with most of her court.  She hadn’t tasted the egg concoction nor the bread she’d eaten. Her stomach settled itself when she eventually sat on the throne.  Rigid and tense.

This was the beginning of her daily routine.  The wolves would stare, she would stare back and the minutes would pass by ever so slowly.    


“I will advise the Jarl of this,” she overheard General Tulius’ voice coming from downstairs.  Her eyes widened and her hands clenched on her lap.   


She tensed when the General appeared in front of her followed closely by a Thalmor Justiciar. “Your Highness,” the General bowed.  The Justiciar followed no such formality and began speaking immediately.

“The Dragonborn has left to fight Alduin,” the hooded Altmer said clearly, “The Dominion will send reinforcements in case a dragon attacks Solitude.”

“And what of the dozen battlemages promised?” Elisif’s tone is questioning, innocent sounding.    


“They are on their way,” the Thalmor said, “And should arrive within the week.”

She nodded her head regally, unsure whether she should believe him or not but powerless to do anything if he was.  Dragon attacks weren’t to be taken lightly, especially with the Dragonborn gone and any reinforcements were essential.         


“Our spies tell us that he subdued a dragon and it took him to Alduin’s lair,” the Elf continued, his yellow eyes boring into her skull.  Elisif stared back despite her heart pounding in her chest.

Her first thought was that she hoped Alduin killed him, and then she changed her mind because if Alduin killed him, then the world was doomed.  No one else could save Tamriel...

Elisif schooled her features into an emotionless mask and nodded briefly in the Thalmor’s direction.  Tullius was staring at her with an expression of muted pity as the Altmer swept out of the throne room.    


The Jarl watched him leave and straightened her back.  If the Dragonborn killed Alduin, he would effectively remove the dragon threat from Skyrim.  This would be a boon to both sides, and if she was lucky he would return maimed for life and unable to fight alongside Ulfric.

She took a fortifying breath.  And mammoths could fly. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are love!
> 
> Comments are life!

###  9

Oda found the tiny Altmer just outside of Redoran’s Retreat.  He’d flown across the plains, searching for her aura for what felt like hours when he returned from dropping off Razzle in Skuldafn.  He roared in relief when he landed. He’d dropped the gear he’d been carrying with his back claws on the ground and transformed immediately into his Atmoran form.

He dressed quickly, glad that he only had the one piece of leather gear before he ran towards the unconscious Altmer.  She made no sound as he picked her up carefully and very gently opened the door to the Retreat. He was careful to place her just inside, by the door.  His wide grin almost terrifying as he unsheathed the massive two-handed battleaxe.  

The first bandit didn’t even see him coming before his axe decapitated him in one clean hit.  The next bandit faired no better. Oda didn’t even break out in a sweat as he swung the weapon around like an extension of his arm.  One of the bandits got a lucky hit on him and sliced across his chest, he countered by smashing his hard head into theirs breaking their face open like a melon.

He Shouted Unrelenting Force at another, sending them flying into the firepit where they proceeded to burst into flames, screeching like an animal, flailing about wildly (he put them out of their misery when he got closer to them).  The bandit chief was dealt with without issue, Oda just Shouted Fire Breath at him and watched him turn to a pile of ash and molten steel. He’d fought off insects (his last battle with the ice ticks and fleas came to mind) that were more problematic than this bunch of louts.

He gave the cave a good look over, checking nooks and crannies for cowards before he made his way back to his scentless little mer.  He noticed immediately that she wasn’t in the position that he had left her, though she looked unconscious. She had tried to get to her feet and had failed.  He smiled faintly to himself and bent to pick her up as gently as he could.

He arranged her in his arms so that her head was against his chest.  She groaned and he growled, making his chest vibrate comfortingly. He was trying to soothe her.  

“You’re all right, lass,” he murmured over her head, “I got you.”

She groaned again and her golden eyes cracked open to look up at him.  She grimaced as she craned her neck back over his arm to look at his face.  He smiled at her, relaxing his face and cuddling her closer to his big body.  She was so small in his arms, weighing practically nothing.

“Well, hello,” he smiled down at her, keeping his expression open, “There’s a bed up here where you can rest.”

“W-who are you?” she croaked, and immediately cleared her throat.  He’d find her something to drink as soon as he had her settled.

“I’m hurt lass, that you don’t remember me,” he spoke slowly, “I thought saving your life in Whiterun would endear me in your eyes.” Her eyes got bigger and locked onto his face.  His smile widened as recognition dawned on her, “You can call me Oda,” he grinned down at her.

She remained silent until they reached the back of the cave where he’d spotted the bed, complete with pillows and furs.  He liked that bandits were getting more and more frivolous with their lairs. It hadn’t been like that the last time he’d been alive.  

He was careful as he deposited her delicately onto the bed, and then pulled the blankets up over her body, tucking her in as though she were a child. When he was done fussing, he got up and he felt her watching him as he started rummaging through the shelves and containers around the area.  There had to be potions of some kind in here that the little mer could use to help with the magicka poisoning.

“Thank you…” she whispered, her voice trailing off. He grunted and came back to the side of the bed, a couple of potions in hand, Cure disease and a health potion.

“Drink this,” he crouched beside the bed and helped her to a sitting position.  He brought the vial of Cure Disease to her lips and helped her quaff it. She made a face at the bitter taste but swallowed the whole thing.

He smiled knowingly as realization dawned on her and she sighed in relief.  Her magic was slowly regenerating, he could literally see it. One down, one to go.  He lifted the second potion to her lips.

“This one should revive your spirits,” he grinned and helped her down a health potion. “And you’re welcome, lass.”

She closed her eyes and Oda watched as she fell into a fretful sleep.  Her colouring was pale for her race so he decided he would help keep her warm.  He stripped, dropped his gear beside the bed in a pile and crawled into bed with her.  

    Oda grabbed the tiny Altmer and arranged her so that she was draped over his chest her breasts flattened against him, her leather-clad legs were in between his own.  He wrapped his arms about her small frame and held her close. He was unable to resist as he lowered his head and took a deep breath of her hooded head.

   He could smell the blood and the leather of her armour, but that was it.  There was no smell to  _ her _ .  He rumbled in satisfaction, and let his hands roam across her back gently - possessively.  He rumbled again, his tongue twirling in his mouth. He wanted to taste her.   

   One big hand settled in the middle of her back while the other was on the curve of her tight ass.  She was small but her ass cheek fit perfectly in his palm. He wondered briefly what else of hers would fit perfectly in his hand.  He wasn't embarrassed when his dick started hardening beneath her, on the contrary, he hoped he was still hard when she woke up. She would know without a doubt he wanted her.

    She sighed deeply and snuggled into his chest, her fingers twitching in his body hair.  He growled faintly, the sound more a purr really, and closed his eyes as he relaxed. He had no need for sleep, that was all he had done for thousands of years, it would be weeks yet before he would truly need it.  

    The hours passed faster than he liked.  The female had flipped a couple times on him, but she never rolled off his body.  She snuggled him, clutched him, and even drooled on him (as a dragon that did not bother him at all).  And then her knee came into contact with his dick. He tensed and couldn't help the moan that escaped his throat.

    That is what woke her.  She froze on him. He was preparing to wish her a good morning when she suddenly screeched at the top of her lungs ( _ Alduin have mercy and swallow his soul _ ), and blasted him with a lightning spell that sent him flying into a bookshelf.  He groaned and lay there, amidst burnt books and broken wood, panting like he'd run up the Throat of the World with a dead frost troll on his back.     

“Lass!” he gasped, “A good morning to you too…” he mumbled, between breaths, his body smoking.

“What the fuck are you doing in my bed naked?!?! ” she practically shrieked at him, rapidly getting to her feet in the middle of the bed.

He raised a shaky hand in the air and held one finger up. “For one, that’s not your bed,” he pointed out very slowly, he could smell burnt hair on the air.  He held up a second, “For two, I had to warm you up, you’d loss too much blood. And three,” he held up three fingers, his arm wobbling, "I barely touched your ass," he finally muttered, lowering his arm and raising his head to grin at her sheepishly, his red hair almost standing on ends.

Her eyes widened to the size of septims, he could see it from the bookshelf.  Her right hand immediately reached for a throwing dagger in a pouch and she flung it at him. The dagger embedded itself in the destroyed bookshelf, in between his leg.  He blinked at her, once, twice, thrice, his head raising more as he glanced to where the blade had landed. He was impressed, and slightly distressed. Too close for comfort.

“Noted,” he swallowed audibly and glanced back towards her, “You’re very good with one of those.”

    “You touch me again,” she hissed leaving the threat open, her eyes narrowing.

He raised his hands in defense and finally struggled to his feet.  He noticed she blushed as he bent and started to retrieve his armours that seem to have landed haphazardly around the area.  Her eyes were following his movements and he grinned to himself when his back was to her.

    He was very slowly pulling on his leggings, letting her look her fill.  Oda smirked when he flexed his ass muscles deliberately and she gasped, she liked his body that much was sure.  He puffed his chest as he slowly turned around to face her, a teasing smile to his lips, he could use that. The skin around her eyes was orange, and she was pretending to adjust her mask, looking everywhere but at him.  

     She made a show of rolling off the bed and making her way towards the exit of the Retreat.

“Thank you for saving me,” she nodded towards him, “And curing me and…”

“Where are you going?” he jogged after her retreating form, strapping his steel battleaxe to his back.  As if he was going to let her out of his sight.

“Tracking the Dragonborn,” she muttered, not turning to look at him.

“That’s wonderful!” he boomed, coming up beside her, “So am I!”

Her eyes widened as she turned her head towards him. "Why are you…” she trailed off, her eyes catching a glimpse of a blisterwort mushroom. She retrieved it efficiently and tucked it into a pouch, “...trailing the Dragonborn?” she continued, “And why did you save me?” she added, glancing at him sideways.

“Cause I work for him,” Oda smirked, not technically a lie, “I have to stay close to him in case he needs me," again not really a lie, "And I knew by looking at you, you weren’t any sort of spy,” he explained lamely.

     She frowned.

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to see the dragon,” she muttered, putting a hand on the door, just inside the Retreat.

He arched an eyebrow as he looked down at her, his voice sounded disbelieving, “The dragon?” Really?  His heart beat faster for a brief moment in excitement that she had actually come to see him.

She blushed and averted her gaze as she pushed on the door. “Yes,” she hissed, stepping out into the cool night. She blinked and cursed under her breath.

“You were out two days firm,” he said as she glared up at the moons. She cursed again and then rolled her shoulders as she gazed towards Whiterun.  He wondered briefly if she was thinking about him, the dragon.

“So, where did your boss go then?” she asked, frowning as her eyes lingered on Whiterun.

“Off to kill the World Eater,” Oda sighed heavily, being dramatic, “We’ll see if he can pull it off.”

Her eyes widened, and he heard her tongue lick at her lips. "How long ago?”

“Oh couple days now,” he pointed eastward, “I’d say a long hike that way.” A couple hours by air he wanted to add, but he didn't want to tell her yet he was the dragon.  Her eyes followed where he pointed, and before she could move away from him, he reached out and grabbdd her arm in a vise-like grip. “I happen to be heading that way myself, how about we combine resources?” he smiled down at her, the wind ruffling his flame red hair.

She glared down at his callused hand (he released her slowly) and then narrowed her eyes at him. “Sure.. but I don’t want to find you naked.”

He placed a hand over his heart solemnly, “Unless you need it.” He winked at her and bared his teeth in a smile.

    She snorted at him, but he noticed her skin flushing orange.  He liked making her blush. “I assure you, I won’t,” she hissed through her teeth, peering at him darkly.

“Of course, lass,” he grinned and then sauntered on ahead of her.

 


End file.
